Believing Fargo was ahead of me, I went on. Several miles later, I reached the top of Black Mountain. From that height, I was certain I’d see New York City in the distance, but cloud cover hid the view.
I went down the mountain, and the trail crossed the Palisades Interstate Parkway, a four-lane highway carrying traffic to and from New York City. A road sign told me I was thirty-four miles from the city. I carefully cleared the first two lanes with their busy traffic and reached the wooded median. In this buffer zone, I found a trail register. Fargo had not signed it; he was still behind me somewhere. I quickly scribbled my name, and dodged the speeding cars to cross the other two lanes.
I was back in the woods immediately. A small footbridge led over Beechy Bottom Brook. I knew the next shelter did not have a water supply, so I uncoiled my filter, dangled it into the brook, and filtered two liters of water. A difficult fifty-foot rock scramble took me to the top of West Mountain.
The West Mountain Shelter was more than half a mile off the trail and the day was fading away. I decided to stop for the night and stealth camp in a small grassy spot right next to the trail. My campsite had a grand view out over the Palisades Parkway and toward the cloud-enshrouded city of New York. Earlier in the week, I’d found two bags of tea someone had left at a shelter; I sat on the rocks, enjoying the view and sipping a cup of tea.
Throughout the night, stomping and snorting and loud crashing let me know the local animal population was upset at my intrusion. The area was covered with blueberry bushes that supplied my breakfast the next morning as I crossed West Mountain and headed to Bear Mountain.
———
Atop Bear Mountain, a forty-foot stone tower honored George W. Perkins, a business partner of financier J. P. Morgan. George Perkins had been chairman of the Palisades Interstate Park Commission and was instrumental in saving the west bank of the Hudson River (known as the Palisades) from quarry operators. He was also involved in the Appalachian Trail Conference and helped establish many trails in the area. The first miles of the AT opened here on October 7, 1923, and went from Bear Mountain through Harriman State Park.
I paused to rest at the base of Bear Mountain and, shielded by a tree, watched an amazing scene. Twenty feet from me, a newborn fawn wobbled toward its mother. I stood in awe and watched as it suckled, its white spots clearly visible.
After several minutes, I quietly slipped away, headed toward more wildlife encounters. The AT dipped to the lowest elevation of the entire trail, 124 feet. And there, I came face-to-face with two black bears. No cause for alarm, though, as the bears were part of a zoo. The trail passes through the Trailside Museum and Zoo, and thru-hikers are granted free passage.
On the other side of the zoo, I came out to the Hudson River and Bear Mountain Bridge. Here again, thru-hikers are given a free pass over the toll bridge. But before I crossed the Hudson, food again called. I walked to the nearby town of Fort Montgomery in search of lunch and found a wonderful deli. The lunch break cost me several hours, but it did reconnect me with Fargo. Coming back to the bridge, I caught sight of him strolling out of the zoo.
“Fargo!” I yelled, glad to see him again. “Get away from that zoo quick, before they realize you’re missing!”
On the other side of the highway, I spied a Pepsi machine beside the toll house. A three-foot concrete barrier separated the sidewalk from the roadway. I couldn’t resist a cold drink, so I dropped my backpack, dodged the traffic, and claimed my Pepsi. Returning, I intended to impress Fargo with my athletic skills by leaping gracefully over that barrier. I was feeling light on my feet without my backpack, and with Pepsi in hand, I dodged two lanes of traffic and launched over the concrete barrier. That is, my mind and half of my body launched. The other half somehow didn’t get the message. I landed, quite ungracefully, straddling the barrier, half of me on the bridge, and half on the sidewalk.
“Dat’s gotta hurt bad,” sympathized Fargo.
“Where have you been? Where did I miss you?” I asked in a high-pitched voice. Might as well change the subject.
Fargo was drawn to water like black flies are drawn to thru-hikers. He’d gone swimming. Two miles before the shelter where we’d planned to meet, he had discovered Lake Tiorati and stopped for an hour to swim and cool off, while I walked by unknowingly. For the rest of our time together, Fargo was in whatever water we met, whether a puddle or a lake. Crossing the Hudson, I made certain he didn’t jump off the bridge.
The Graymoor Spiritual Life Center is home to a group of Catholic men called the Franciscan Friars of the Atonement. Located on four hundred acres overlooking the Hudson River valley, the Center’s mission is to discover what lies inside each individual and to foster unity between God and man and unity between all people. In times past, hikers were welcome to eat with the Friars, but that was no longer a policy. I was deeply disappointed, since I had hoped to interact with these men.
We were, however, permitted to sleep in a pavilion on the grounds. Fargo and I spread out our gear and were soon joined by a newcomer. Garmin had started his hike on February 17, almost six weeks before I arrived at Springer Mountain. By the time he finished, Garmin probably had walked more miles than any other 2008 thru-hiker. He covered many AT miles three times—his sense of direction was horrible, and other hikers often met him hiking the wrong way. We welcomed him into our merry little band and promised to keep him headed north if he stayed with us.
Saint Gertrude and Stretch, two hikers I had not met, set up their tents outside the pavilion. I would hike with Gerty later in my journey, but Stretch would soon be off the trail. Fargo told everyone about the Pharmacy Shelter just one day ahead of us. Tomorrow night, he would be staying at the shrine he was certain was dedicated to fellow hardworking pharmacists.
———
From a friary tower on the hill above us, a bell announced the arrival of every new hour throughout the night. I woke at every toll, so we got an early start toward the RPH Shelter. I didn’t need to worry about Fargo disappearing again; I knew exactly where he’d be that night.
It was a nineteen-mile hike to RPH, and since the bell had tolled for me all night, I was tired and happy to see the nondescript block building, resembling a one-car garage. Since it had become Fargo’s shrine, Garmin and I allowed him to enter first. Several bunks lined the walls, and the only contents were a desk and a chair. A concrete patio with a picnic table graced the back of the shelter. We saw no pharmacy paraphernalia anywhere, except for a half-empty bottle of Tylenol on the small desk.
“Your museum is kind of empty,” said Garmin, as we surveyed the room. Although Garmin was directionally challenged, he was never at a loss for words. “If this is the tribute shelter for pharmacists, I can’t wait to see the lawyer shelter.”
We found a pizza shop menu on the desk, so we ordered delivery of three large pizzas. Gerty and Stretch arrived, but it was still early, so after stopping in to tour the RPH, they headed for the next shelter.
While we waited for our pizza, the call of nature took me to the privy, newer than the shelter and also built of blocks. Seated inside, I noticed a small plaque on the wall dedicating this block outhouse to Ralph’s Peak Hikers, a local hiking club. The shelter was also named for the club; “RPH” was “Ralph’s Peak Hikers.” As best as I could, considering I was laughing so much, I finished my task and went in search of Garmin and Fargo. “Hey, Garmin, you need to go to the privy, don’t you? Okay, what I meant was—you really must go to the privy. Be sure to read the dedication on the wall before Fargo sees it.”
Soon, another round of hearty laughter came from the block throne room. “Hey dere, you gots to tell me what youse guys are laughing at out dere.”
“Just wait . . . Garmin is reading the history of the Pharmacy Shelter.”
Fargo’s subsequent dejection was soothed somewhat by the delivery of our pizza, and while the three of us sat at the table concentrating only on food, a figure approached from the nearby road. A man who looked to be in his mid-
sixties sat down at our table, greeted us, and asked if we needed anything. Steve lived in a neighboring town, and although he was not a hiker himself, he enjoyed stopping by the shelter occasionally and talking with those passing through. He offered to take us into town if we needed supplies, and we decided to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart. A new Lincoln SUV waited by the roadside, and Steve seemed to have no objections to three dirty thru-hikers riding in his spotless vehicle. Boxes were piled high in the back of the SUV, and I asked Steve what he did for a living. “I’m a pharmacist,” he said. “I own seven pharmacies in the surrounding villages.”
Fargo was astounded. I looked at Garmin, and we both shook our heads in disbelief.
“Believe you me, I told youse guys dat was a pharmacy shelter.”
———
The coincidence was almost too bizarre to be true. But anything can happen on the trail. That’s another gift of the trail: incidents so unexpected and inexplicable and whimsical that I could only shake my head in amazement. The morning before had held just such surprises.
Very early in the morning, we spotted a circle of plastic pink flamingoes in the woods. Garmin and I stood in their midst and took our picture. Who would have taken the time to carry pink flamingoes out here? (Later, we talked with a hiker who claimed the circle marked the home of a rattlesnake family. I doubted the story, but I admit it did send shivers down my spine.)
A little farther down the trail, we stood under the Dover Oak, proudly claiming to be the largest tree on the AT. Back in Virginia, the Keffer Oak makes the same claim.
Soon after, we walked through a field where round bales of hay lay in the morning mist, then crossed a marshy area on bog bridges, and suddenly arrived at a train stop. The railroad tracks were empty as we crossed, but next to them, here in almost-the-middle of nowhere, a blue bench perched on a raised platform. Apparently, trains did stop here several times a day, for anyone wishing to hop a ride to New York City.
We crossed Rt. 22. A short walk down the road brought us to a nursery and landscaping center that was just opening for the day. I spotted an employee on the porch, called good morning to him, and jokingly asked if there was coffee available. We were invited in and the owner himself brewed us a pot of coffee while he and Fargo talked hunting and fishing. We sat on the front porch, drinking coffee and distracting his workers from their morning routines.
On the trail again, we walked through a field where someone had painstakingly built a shell around an old water tower, transforming it into a rocket ship poised for takeoff.
It was barely seven in the morning and we’d only walked three miles.
One of the biggest surprises the trail held for me was just that—the surprises.
On June 27, another hot and muggy day, we entered Connecticut. Ten miles ahead was the town of Kent. We needed a break, so we called ahead to book a room. No price would be too great for a shower.
I was wrong; $120 did seem too much to pay for a shower. Kent was an upscale town, a playground for rich folks from New York City. Antique shops, B&Bs, expensive chocolate stores, and other attractions made Kent inviting, but too pricey for hikers interested only in a shower and rest.
Garmin called the owner of Backcountry Outfitters to inquire about getting a ride to nearby Wingdale, in hopes of finding a cheaper room. The owner agreed to pick us up at the road crossing, take us to our motel, and pick us up again in the morning to return to Kent, where we all had scheduled food drops. Fargo, who thoroughly enjoyed staying in shelters, would stay behind in the woods.
We came to the road crossing where we would meet our ride and a BMW convertible was waiting for us. The ride was exhilarating and the motel was indeed cheaper—only $60 for our shower. What we had not considered, though, was the price of gas. The next morning when our BMW taxi dropped us off in Kent, we paid another $60 for the ride. Our shower had cost us $120, after all.
I walked the streets of Kent, admiring antique stores and art galleries. Garmin was meeting a former school friend at a road crossing several miles up the trail, so he was already gone by the time I stuck out my thumb for a ride back to the trail.
As I rode back to the trail in a beat-up Volvo, I spotted a floppy hat and a flute and knew that Padre would probably be catching up with me soon.
Seven miles later, I found Fargo relaxing at the Stewart Hollow Brook Lean-to. I convinced him break time was over, and he joined me again. I wanted to keep on schedule for my “Connecticut Plan.” The truth was, I longed for more comforts. I would probably be in Connecticut for three nights, and if all went according to plan, I would spend all three nights in a soft bed. I’d had my fill of shelters and stealth camping for now.
We followed the Housatonic River for several miles; the path was level, with the best trail conditions we had seen in days. A familiar figure was walking toward us, headed south. We greeted him.
“Hey, Garmin, enjoy your trip back to Georgia.”
His internal compass had failed him again, and we turned him around and headed him north to meet his friend.
My plan was working to perfection. The second night I had a soft bed in Cornwall Bridge and a great six o’clock breakfast at Baird’s General Store.
The third leg of Connecticut took me 21.6 miles to Salisbury. From the top of Prospect Mountain, I called Maria McCabe. Maria was an eighty-year-old lady in Salisbury who opened her home to thru-hikers. I made my call in the evening and interrupted Maria’s card game with her brother-in-law.
“Hey, Maria, there’s two good-looking middle-aged men wanting to stay at your house tonight. How does that suit you?”
“I’m taking quarters from my brother-in-law right now, and he’s still got a few left that I want,” she replied. “But if you’re at Lower Cobble Road at seven o’clock, we’ll pick you up.”
As we approached Lower Cobble Road later that evening, an elderly lady appeared at the trailhead and yelled up to us, “Where are those good-looking men I was promised?”
“Just wait till we get showered and into fresh clothes. You’ll be impressed.”
Going to Maria McCabe’s was like going to grandmother’s house. She welcomed us as if we were family. We learned she had outlived two husbands and several boyfriends and took in hikers to supplement her Social Security income. I’m not certain how much the hiker boarding helped her budget, since she didn’t charge much and allowed us to raid her refrigerator. I believe she thrived, instead, on the hiker conversation.
She brought out a notebook where guests had written notes of thanks for her hospitality. In the cold of winter, she told us, when she was lonely or sad, she would take out this hiker journal and read all of the nice things people had said about her.
As we retired, Maria told us that she never moved any body parts before eight in the morning, but we were welcome to cook our own breakfast. Fargo and I were in the kitchen by six, and I cooked eggs and bacon for us both. Before we left the McCabe house, we wrote nice things in the journal for Maria to read on some dark and cold winter day.
We navigated our way out of Salisbury, following directions Maria had given us the night before. The early morning was already hot and muggy, and we were sweating long before we started our last Connecticut climb, Bear Mountain.
Back in 1885, a local man was convinced that the highest point in the state was atop Bear Mountain, so he hired a mason to construct a tower on the summit that would be visible to the surrounding countryside. Somehow the mason managed to haul 350 tons of rock to the mountaintop and designed a rock pile in the shape of a pyramid without using any mortar whatsoever. Turns out the mountain wasn’t the highest point in Connecticut after all, even though a plaque embedded in the rocks still makes the claim. The pyramid eventually collapsed, and although several attempts were made to rebuild it, maintenance became too troublesome over time. The pile was stabilized and the plaque inserted into the side of the rubble.
Fargo suggested I scamper to the top and have my picture taken on this so-called highest
point. The view was splendid. To the south lay the Berkshire Mountains; to the west, the Catskill Mountains; to the east, the Housatonic Valley unfolded; and to the north, Mt. Greylock boasted its summit as the highest point in Massachusetts.
All along my journey, I was intrigued by the importance folks put on the highest point in any state. The only state that bragged on its low point was New York, where I’d walked through the zoo.
A mile later, we were in beautiful Sages Ravine. The trail followed a brook whose waters cascaded over rocks and gathered in lovely, inviting pools. Large trees sheltered us as the scenic stretch of trail led out of Connecticut and into Massachusetts. On one tree, a sign fastened above a white blaze welcomed us to my eleventh state. Just a few days earlier, entering Connecticut had given me a psychological lift; I was finally in New England. The southern states were done; the middle states were finished; I just had to finish these New England states—and then I could go home.
Our destination for that day was a rustic New England inn in South Egremont, twelve miles ahead. The inn offered a hikers’ discount during the week if rooms were available. We would be celebrating that day. We expected to pass the 1500-mile mark that afternoon, and tomorrow was Fargo’s 57th birthday.
Before the celebrations, we had to conquer Mt. Everett. Its summit was covered with blueberries, and we bounded left and right off the trail, eating the delicious morsels. But the descent from Everett was tricky; the trail was slick, the rocks were slippery, and sitting and sliding was often the best way down. At breakfast in town the next day, we talked with a paramedic who told us they had been called out to Mt. Everett many times to rescue fallen hikers.
Once I had skidded to the bottom of Everett, I’d passed the 1500-mile mark of my hike. We had made it down the mountain with no serious mishaps, and we hitched a ride into South Egremont.
Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail Page 19
